last night I dreamt somebody loved me
by kaleidoscope heart
Summary: "I can't keep dreaming of you," he says, and she turns to him, her hair flowing over her shoulder sweetly but her eyes wicked. She's laughing at him. He might have known. Eleven/Rose


She's sitting on the bed with her back to him when he walks in door, and the sunlight that streams in through the open window seems to reflect off every inch of her skin. Her hair, long like it used to be, is curled still from the street party they had left only four hours before and she looks so lovely that he can feel the first cold waves of deja vu.

Then he realizes.

"I can't keep dreaming of you," he says, and she turns to him, her hair flowing over her shoulder sweetly but her eyes wicked. She's laughing at him. He might have known.

"Then stop," she says, and adjusts the sheet. In this dream she's wearing a tank top and shorts and though the most salicious parts of her are well covered, he can recall vividly how hard it had been in those days to not touch her when she was wearing that very outfit. At the thought, his hands clench into fists which he quickly buries into his pockets. He makes his way to the little chair opposite the bed and sits down in a huff.

"I can't. I've tried."

She looks at him sympathetically a moment, her eyes dark and large. The sun pouring through the window has made a puddle of light on the bed, and her long hair shines in it so that for a moment it is almost as if the bad wolf herself is in front of him, light pouring from her fingertips. But it is not the bad wolf, not even Rose. Instead she is just a shadow of those things, the ghost of Christmas past, come for a chat.

"You miss me, don't you Doctor?" she says, and her voice is so soft he has to lean forward to catch it. He sighes, adjusts his bowtie until it is somewhat loosened. Thinks, at least here he should be honest.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

His voice is weary as he says it. He can hardly help it. He's had these dreams so many times before. Different places, different bedrooms, a different glint in her eye but he's seen them all a million times. He doesn't have to sleep, not usually anyways. But for every moment he does she waits for him, crouched behind his eyelids for the time when he will close his eyes and sleep his way back into her arms.

"Amy's nice. I like Amy. And Rory," she says, as if trying to offer help. He laughs, so quick that he suprises himself. "A good match too. The boy and girl who waited. That sound familar?"

His laugh fades away but he continues to smile at her.

"I do have a question though," she asks, and swivels on the bed to face him. When she turns, the blanket slides off her leg, pink skin as far as the eye can see. He looks up quickly. Grandfatherly, that's his thing now.

Rose notices and smiles

"So this is a dream, right? Your dream. My question is, why here? Why now? Why a random Tuesday in London and not, I dunno, the cliffs of... ?" she leaves off here, with only a handwave to imply some far, distant planet.

He considers giving her the runaround, and is struck with how ridicilous it is. He is essentially arguing with himself, and it's all so odd he can't help but smile. He pats his hands on his knees and stands suddenly, stepping close enough to inspect her. Once he's looked over every bit of her, he sighs and steps back, rubbing his hands through his hair in frustration. He wishes, for probably the hundredth time, that he would just wake up so that this charade could end. And yet, well, he's not quite sure that's the truth.

He stops his pacing for a moment and looks at her. She's waiting patiently for him to stop, her eyes a mixture of empathy and uncertainty. In that moment she, the memory, looks so much like the real Rose that he can feel his heart constrict in pain. In his dreams the pain is always still so sharp, as if the loss of her was like blade that stabbed him at random times, and never seemed to dull. It jabs at him now, knowing she is four feet and 65 years away from him. And that he has no chance of ever catching up.

She pats the space beside her on the bed, her eyes looking at him imploringly. Sighing again, he sets down next to her.

"Rose this can't continue," he says, and as he's saying it he feels every year of his age. "I've lost companions before. I've left them behind. They've left me. I hate it but we have to move on and..."

She cuts him off by leaning forward and putting her lips against his, her hand landing chastely on his knee. HIs body tightens up and relaxes all at once as he fights inside over what to do next, until finally he has to give in. After all, it's just a dream.

He reaches up and tangles his hands in her hair, taking the kiss deeper as they slide down the bed. They end up side by side facing each other, and the kiss comes to a natural end with their faces only a few inches apart.

"You were saying?" she asks, smiling, and he looks at her, stern.

"This has to stop."

"Yes," she says, and pets his bowtie. But she's still smiling.

They are both quiet for a moment. Outside the window the midday sun is out and people are still celebrating VE Day. They can hear the sound of laughter coming from the street outside, then cheering. He can remember vividly how happy he had felt being there with her, seeing her see the end of a war. And not only for those reasons either. He had been happy to be with her. Happy to have her. It had been early in their travels, too early on to imagine an ending this horrific. The world had felt bright and brand new.

He clears his throat.

"Incidently, if it matters, it was your hair."

"My hair?"

He nods to it and then, almost as if he can't resist, reaches out and touches it. As his fingers slide down and curl around the ends he looks in her eyes and says, "It's the reason why I'm dreaming this. It was VE Day. We_"

Now she's beaming with recognition as she rushes to finish his sentence.

"Partied in the street all night. With Princess Margaret!"

He laughs once, forces his hands to untangle from her hair. He puts his hands back on the comforter where they feel empty and useless.

"We stayed in that little attic room we rented. Remember, from the lady with the dogs? With those two horrible tiny little beds?" He gestures to the beds in question and she nods for him to go on. "Well, I walked out of the bathroom and you had just woken up and were yawning. Your hair was so long then. And the light was in it... Well, I looked at you that morning and I thought, her hair is very pretty."

She laughs and gives him a bit of a shove.

"You're lying. Why is that such a special memory?"

He answers as if it should be obvious, "Because it was the first time I thought it."

She looks at him a moment, her eyes full of a sudden sadness, then kisses him on the lips. When she breaks apart from him, she looks a little paler, as if she might actually be a ghost that is fading away as the end of the dream draws near.

"Stay here with me," she says, and slides up until she is in his arms but his eyelids are suddenly heavy, He rests them a moment with her head tucked under his chin, her hair tickling him in the nose.

"I can't," he says, but still he doesn't open his eyes. She shifts against him, her palm flat against the beat of one of his hearts.

"Till morning. Stay till morning," she says, and her voice is distant now. He can almost imagine the sound filtering through from another universe, except it isn't. She is trapped in his mind, like a butterfly in a closed box. He can never be rid of her, because he doesn't really want to be. He knows that now.

"It is morning," he says, and his voice is loud, louder than it was. Before he even opens his eyes he knows he will be alone and there's nothing new about this feeling, this familar ache he feels down in his bones.

He hates repeats.


End file.
